


drifting in your absence

by krystian



Series: hopes and dreams [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dreamtale (Undertale), Blood and Injury, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Folie a Deux, Gaslighting, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Mental Health Issues, No Incest, Not Canon Compliant, Possession, References to Depression, Self-Esteem Issues, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, do not take the tags lightly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29495352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/krystian/pseuds/krystian
Summary: Fresh is digging into his memories again, Dream can feel it. Clawing his way through them. He’s not careful. He never was. Pushing them aside if they don’t interest him. Most of them don’t, anyway.Blue tells him it will be alright.He believes Blue.
Relationships: Dream & Fresh, Dream & Nightmare, Sans & Sans (Undertale), dream & blue
Series: hopes and dreams [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2160105
Kudos: 17





	drifting in your absence

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, it's me. I was, and still am, hesitant about posting this. This is probably one of the most serious fanfictions I've ever written. To preface this, I want to say that I do not suffer from the disorder I decided to portray here, so I'm sorry if I made mistakes when portraying it (I'll give it a name at the end so i don't spoil too much). I was, however, professionally diagnosed with chronic adjustment disorder so I'm fairly familiar with depressive symptoms, and the ones that are shown here are based on my own experiences. 
> 
> also, you should probably go read the first part of this series for better understanding if you haven't already. 
> 
> Please tell me if I missed any tags. Personally I don't think it's that bad, but it's better to be safe than sorry. With that said, take care. 
> 
> The title is taken from Mother Falcon's [Drown Me in the River](https://youtu.be/qAAFBdP9840) but as BGM, I'd probably choose ibi's [Ohm](https://youtu.be/xhIaeMiL88I)

It hurts.

It hurts so much.

Fresh is digging into his memories again, Dream can feel it. Clawing his way through them. He’s not careful. He never was. Pushing them aside if they don’t interest him. Most of them don’t, anyway. He’s searching for something in particular. Neither him nor Blue had told Dream what that something was.

He really doesn’t know why he agreed to this. Blue is holding his hand, tightening his grip when Dream squirms on the bed. It hurts. “Shhh,” he shushes him, and Dream can feel his gloved hand stroking his head. “It’ll be alright, I promise.”

He believes Blue.

Blue has never lied to him, after all.

* * *

_The Age of Fire, they had called it when it had first cupped the Multiverse in its Hands._

_And with the Age of Fire came Disparity. Heat and Cold, Life and Death, and of course... Light and Dark._

_But soon, the Flames would fade, and only Dark was to remain. The Age of Dark was unyielding, cold, and full of Nothingness and Nightmares._

_It lasted for a Century. Two, perhaps._

_It was hard to count the Days when everything was One._

* * *

He wakes with a gasp, coughing and spluttering as Blue wipes his brow bone with a wet towel.

“How are you feeling?” he asks Dream sympathetically, intently looking into his eyes as if he’s searching for something inside Dream. Fresh is sitting next to him, still discorporate _(but he isn’t really discorporate when Dream is his new host, now is he?)_ and doing anything but paying attention. “Does it still hurt?”

Of course it does. It always does. The bone around his eye is raised and red and swollen and his head feels as if it’s about to burst, but he’s not about to tell Blue that. Blue has god knows how many problems and he really doesn’t want to be another one. Can’t be another one. Sweet, sweet Blue doesn’t deserve that after everything he’s been through. After everything Dream has put him through.

So he shakes his head and tries his best at a smile that is nothing more than mediocre. Blue doesn’t look convinced.

“Oh, Dream,” he sighs, wetting the towel again and wiping over Dream’s face. It feels good on his heated bones, on the puffiness around his eyes as if he’s been crying although he hasn’t cried in what feels like forever. His eye sockets are dry. “I’m so sorry we have to do this,” Blue says, cupping his face with his cold, wet hands. He seems tired. Dream can’t fault him for that. “But it’s the only way.”

He nods. The longer Fresh is outside of his mind, the harder it is to care. About anything. Fresh prides himself on having no emotions to speak of, being rational and calculating, but he’s nothing compared to Ink, nothing compared to _this_ Dream and even he knows that.

And as much as it hurts, he misses the times when Fresh takes over, resumes control. Because it’s easier to let him pretend that Dream’s feeling something again. It’s easier to let him make all the decisions and talk for Dream.

It’s just easier.

* * *

“H-he’s not doing his job right,” Error grumbles, arms crossed over his chest. His eyes keep flitting around as if he doesn’t quite trust Ink, which is fair.

Ink shifts where he’s sitting on the ground, sketchpad in his hand. “And what am I supposed to do about that?” he asks without looking up. “It was your plan. Now deal with the consequences.”

He can see Error moving around out of the corners of his eye sockets, the permanent frown on his face and the way he glitches a little harder. “A-aren’t you guys friends?” he snaps back, “shouldn’t i-it be your job to make sure that he’s alright?”

Shrugging, Ink raises his pencil to his mouth and gnaws on its end. “Dunno,” he says. “As long as it’s not affecting too many other timelines, I don’t care all that much.”

“You don’t care about any-anything other than yourself.”

It doesn’t even sound accusing. It’s just a simple statement.

“You’re right,” he says. “But it’s your fault that things went south. And besides, why would you even need him to do his job? I thought the entire goal was to get rid of him.”

Error grumbles again. “I-it’s not so much that he isn’t doing his job at all, he’s just doing it _wrong._ And that’s f-fucking everything up even more.”

Ink shrugs again. “That’s not my problem.”

He can basically hear Error rolling his eye lights when he says, “You’re a bad f-fucking friend, you kn-know that?”

“I know,” he replies simply.

It doesn’t bother him that much.

* * *

They’re standing in front of a mirror, Dream and Fresh. It’s a mirror inside Blue’s and Papyrus’ house. The one in his room, to be exact.

Just standing, watching their reflection. Dream raises his hand to his face.

_Their face?_

His face. Runs the tips of his fingers over the bone beneath the eye socket Fresh is currently inhabiting. Purple talons. “What do we do now?” he asks Fresh. His reflection’s mouth moves. 

Fresh answers with Dream’s own mouth, even though it isn’t his voice. “Want me ta be honest with ya, lil’ bro? I really dunno.” Fresh sighs, digging his claws into Dream’s bone. It doesn’t hurt as much as it used to. It’s more of a permanent ache now, the least of his concerns.

“I don’t know what to do either,” he confesses. “I can’t do anything. It’s like-” he clenches his hand _(their hand),_ watching his fingers close around air- “like I don’t even know who I am anymore.” He’d wanted to get rid of Fresh so badly but it feels pointless now. Their lives are intermingled already, tangled in a web of pretences and lies.

Fresh can’t read his thoughts, not the ones he doesn’t want him to read. Not yet anyway. Dream doesn’t know how long it’ll take until Fresh has finally discovered every part that he’s trying so hard to keep hidden, stowed away in the back of his mind. Fresh won’t judge, no, but he’ll certainly tell Blue. And perhaps that’s worse.

It hurts every time Fresh is with him, and it hurts even more when he isn’t. His body, his mind, his soul, they aren’t used to the lack of feelings – he draws on others’ positive emotions, enhances them, but something, some miniscule part of him must have shattered when Fresh had invaded his mind that first time. He can still feel it, the golden light, somewhere deep inside him, but it’s hidden, barely there, only a glimmer in a never-ending night, a night that he has brought upon the world.

It’s his fault, all over again. It’s always his fault.

“Whatcha thinkin’ bout, dawg?” Fresh asks, as if he doesn’t know. Purple talons.

“Nothing,” Dream says, even though that’s a lie. They both know it’s a lie anyway, so why address the obvious?

Multi-coloured eyes are staring at him from the mirror. His eyes. Their eyes. He’s wearing golden and turquoise.

Fresh is purple.

The mirror shatters.

* * *

_It’s always dark here, always. When has it ever not been dark?_

_Dream’s fingers dig into wet soil, muddy, it’s been raining, hasn’t it? It’s been raining, surely. It must have been if the soil is wet, right? There’s dirt in his face and in his mouth and he spits it out but it’s still there. It’s not raining._

_He gets up, stumbles, and then he’s on his knees again, crawling through the dirt and the mud and it’s staining his clothes, and it’s dark, so unbelievably dark, and what has he been looking for in the mud? It must have been something important, so if he could only remember, remember what it was, but he can’t, his mind is empty, no, that’s wrong, it’s filled to the brim with mud and darkness, the oozing kind._

_Dream gets up again, steadier this time, slower, so he doesn’t fall again. One step after the other. Gaze always trained on the ground. He can’t see the ground. It’s not raining._

_A silhouette, in front of him, in the dark. Their clothes are wet. Oily. Nightmare._

_He stops in his tracks. “Nightmare?” he asks, stupidly._

_Nightmare grins. It’s white in the dark. He doesn’t say anything. Just grins. Grins and grins and grins._

_Dream reaches out to him._

_Nightmare grins._

* * *

He wakes up without a gasp, hands curled into the blanket. Fresh is nowhere to be seen. Not in his mind, not in his room. The mirror is still shattered. The shards are all over the floor. He hasn’t bothered to clean them up. He doesn’t bother now.

He stumbles out of bed, disentangling himself from the blanket and makes his way down into the kitchen, past Papyrus who’s reading a newspaper at the table, and into the living room. It’s a Sunday. Blue’s home. Sitting on the couch with Fresh. Talking? Probably. Blue’s good at that.

“Fresh,” Dream croaks, and there must be something in his face or in his voice because Blue leaps up, taking Fresh with him and hurrying towards Dream to hand him over, like some kind of trophy, something, something. “Please.”

Fresh sighs, crawling up Dream’s arm and settling into his eye socket. It’s a familiar weight. A reassuring one. Blue looks conflicted.

“Are you alright, Dream?” he asks, and Dream sends him a smile that hopefully is reassuring as well. He gives Dream one last, long, sceptical look before shooing him towards the stairs. “You should go change. There’s still breakfast in the kitchen.”

Dream simply nods, making his way up the stairs, this time with Fresh in tow.

His feet leave muddy imprints on the carpeted stairs.

* * *

He’s sipping a cup of tea in the kitchen; Papyrus’ nose is still buried in the newspaper, but he’s flipping the pages too fast to actually be reading it. Blue is sitting across him. Hands folded together on the table. Not fiddling. Simply watching.

Dream places the cup on the table. It leaves water stains on the wood. “What’s wrong?” he asks, and Blue sighs.

“Don’t get me wrong, Dream,” he starts. That’s never a good start. He’s done something wrong again. It’s always his fault. “I- it’s good that you and Fresh seem to be getting along just fine, but… should you really be spending so much time together?”

Dream shrugs. “We’re still separate beings, aren’t we?” In his mind, Fresh agrees. “Then I don’t see the problem. He’s just helping me and I’m offering him a body to stay in for the time being.”

Papyrus clears his throat but says nothing.

They ignore him.

“I’m just worried,” Blue continues, “when’s the last time you slept peacefully, Dream?” When he goes to answer, Blue interrupts him. “Without Fresh’s intervention, I mean.”

That shuts him up for a second.

“See?” Blue sighs. “It’s- it’s not healthy, Dream. You guys can’t keep this up forever.”

He doesn’t want to keep this up forever. Just until he’s recovered, that’s all. But recovery is slow and painful and Blue can’t see that, because how could he? He’s not the one directly affected. He’s just a bystander. He’s not the one who has to live with Dream’s thoughts and Dream’s burdens. Lucky is he who lives unaware.

“Of course not,” he smiles at Blue, willing at least some of his fading magic to bleed into his words, to help pacify Blue. “It’s not a permanent solution, don’t worry.” Fresh titters in his mind. Fresh knows that he’s a liar. Does Blue know he’s a liar?

Dream leaves the kitchen.

* * *

They’re standing in front of a shattered mirror, Dream and Fresh.

Turquoise and golden and purple. Dream keeps tugging at his tunic. Keeps taking the sunglasses Fresh wants him to wear off.

“How ‘bout dis,” Fresh says in his mind. They keep staring at the mirror. “How ‘bout we keep da turquoise-” Dream’s hand points at the tunic but it’s Fresh who’s guiding it- “but swap out da gold ‘n add a snazzy jacket, whaddaya say, dawg?” He tugs the sunglasses down again.

Dream shrugs. If it makes Fresh stay, then it’s fine with him.

“Knew ya were totes reasonable, lil’ bro.”

The worst of both worlds. Purple and turquoise.

* * *

“It’s certainly an interesting development,” Killer states, reclining back into the couch. “Didn’t expect it’d would happen, to be honest with ya. At least not so soon. Doesn’t he usually take better care that this doesn’t happen?”

Nightmare pinches the bridge of his nose with his fingers, sighing. “He’s slipping up. But we can use that to our advantage.”

Killer leans forward slightly, interested. “Because it’ll make him vulnerable?”

He grins. “Exactly.”

* * *

“You look… different,” Blue notes when Dream comes down the stairs. When Fresh comes down the stairs. Both of them? Maybe just one. He scrutinizes them, as they sit down at the table. “How did you sleep?”

“Good,” Dream answers. Or maybe it’s Fresh that answers. Either one of them. Blue nods.

“Alright then.” He smiles, that brilliant smile of his. Dream’s smile. Or what used to be his smile. Without Dream’s doing. Dream doesn’t make people happy anymore. Maybe he never did. “Are you ready to go? I’ve been looking forward to this forever now! I mean, between training and all the rebuilding we have to do, we really deserve a break now and then, don’t you think?” Blue is babbling, mostly to himself, so he doesn’t notice it when Dream’s expression freezes for a split second. But Fresh notices, as he always does, and takes over, glossing over Dream’s faux-pas. “Sure thing, brah,” he says, getting up to follow Blue. And then, in Dream’s mind, _What’s wrong?_

 _I don’t remember,_ Dream answers, no intonation, nothing, _where are we going again?_

* * *

_Nightmare, cupping Dream’s face in his hands. Oily hands. The goop clings to his bones. Dark, like the night._

_“Why did you do it?” Dream asks him, looking up at his brother. His brother. The one he loves so dearly. It’s raining, until it’s not._

_“Do what?” Nightmare purrs. He’s grinning. Why’s he always grinning? Dream wishes he could ask him. But that would be too much. He can’t possibly ask that. He’s asked so much of Nightmare already. Nightmare would never lie to him. Nightmare loves him, too._

_“Trap me there. All alone.”_

_Nightmare strokes his cheek with one of his tentacles. It’s soft on his bones. Doesn’t hurt. Not at all. “Are you sure you remember that correctly?” he asks Dream. “You have a pretty bad memory.”_

_And if Nightmare is saying that, well, then it must be true._

_Nightmare doesn’t lie to him, after all._

* * *

Dream is staring at the freshly picked apples in the basket. They’re just there.

Blue nudges him. “Everything alright?” He’s carrying another basket of red apples. “Is Fresh with you?”

Almost dazed, Dream shakes his head. No, Fresh isn’t with him. He’d feel that, right? Or have they already passed that threshold?

“That’s good, that’s good.” He softly pushes Dream towards the bench in the kitchen, making him sit down. “I’m glad to catch you alone. How’ve you been feeling lately?”

He shrugs.

Blue sighs. “Dream, you’re really not making this easy for me.” Blue’s hand is on his knee. Just there. “I knew we said we’d give you time, but we don’t have all the time in the world. Are you sure you don’t want to talk to Ink? He might be able to help.”

He shrugs again. Silence.

“Well, just think about it,” Blue says. “And Dream?” He doesn’t wait until Dream answers. Because Dream won’t answer. “You know we love you, right?”

And maybe that’s why it hurts so much.

* * *

The apples in the basket are rotting the next day. He keeps staring at them.

* * *

_It’s not raining, until it is._

_Nightmare is there again. Grinning. His hands are on Dream’s face. Cold. Like the rain that isn’t falling. “Oh Dream,” he says, running his thumb over his brother’s cheekbone, “you’re just too sensitive.”_

_“You left me all alone,” Dream says. And still he leans into his brother’s touch. Seeking at least a little comfort. “For an eternity.”_

_“You’re overreacting, Dream,” Nightmare coos. He’s looming over Dream, like a shadow. And perhaps he is one. “I only left for a short while, for your own good. And see, I came back, just for you. You’re not alone anymore, Dream. You have me.”_

_That’s true. He will always have his brother._

* * *

“I hope y-you know what you’re d-doing, asshole,” Error hisses. He’s looking positively livid, but maybe that’s just his resting face. Nightmare savours the expression, the raw hatred pouring out of him. It’s quite refreshing, if he’s being honest. “Wouldn’t accidentally want to c-create another deadly w-weapon, now would we?”

“Relax,” Nightmare simply says. “It’s all going according to plan. It’s fine.”

“Oh yeah?” Error says. “Oh yeah? Y-you call _this_ according to plan?”

He will see soon enough. And maybe then he won’t call Nightmare’s plans into question as much anymore – not that Nightmare dislikes the taste of doubt and distrust.

* * *

He can hear Blue and Papyrus talking downstairs, even though they’re whispering. “I’m just worried, Papy. He isn’t himself anymore,” Blue says, and Dream can imagine the expression on his face. “I thought letting Fresh interfere might help him but…” he trails off. Heavy silence.

“They’re afraid, lil’ bro,” Fresh whispers into his mind. “Of us. Wanna see what we can do together?”

Dream has no answer. He’s become estranged from the only place he could call home. Unwanted. Unneeded. He doesn’t want to see what they can do together. He just wants to sleep. Wants to see his brother again. Nightmare loves him. Nightmare doesn’t lie to him.

He closes his eye sockets.

* * *

_“Will you stay with me?” Dream asks._

_Nightmare grins._

_“Forever and ever?” There’s pain in his soul, radiating brightly, pain in every bone of his body. It’s raining._

_Is it?_

_It feels like it’s raining._

_Dream sighs. “We can put our differences aside,” he says, hopeful. “I forgive you.”_

_“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”_

_Footsteps in the mud. Not Nightmare’s, certainly not Dream’s. Someone is coming._

_Nightmare’s grin drops from his face. The last sliver of light leaves. “Why, Dream?” he asks as the footsteps come closer, and there’s pain in his voice, pain that Dream caused because that’s all Dream is good for, “I thought this place was our secret? Why did you-”_

_Before Nightmare finishes his sentence, the rain stops._

* * *

Purple talons, poking at his face. “Brah, wake up,” Fresh says from where he’s sitting right next to Dream’s face. “Dawg, ya dream da weirdest stuff.”

That catches Dream’s attention. “You were there,” he states calmly. In the dim, red morning light, Nightmare seems more like an apparition than anything else.

Fresh sighs. “Yeah, lil’ bro.” Still poking at his face, almost as if asking for permission. It’s a mere formality at this point.

Someone snorts next to him. “How annoying.”

When he turns around, no one’s there.

* * *

They walk down the stairs together. Blue is there, Papyrus isn’t. “Good morning,” Dream says. Fresh is silent. 

“Good morning,” Blue greets back, pleasantly surprised. He looks tired. The rotting apples are gone from the basket. _What rotting apples?_ Fresh asks in his mind. It doesn’t matter. They’re gone, anyway.

He stalks over to the table and plops down on one of the chairs. “I’m going out today,” he announces. Blue smiles at him. There are stars in his eyes.

“Really? Where are you going?”

“The park.” It’s a lie, but Blue doesn’t need to know. It’s better if he doesn’t.

“That’s nice!” Blue exclaims, clasping his hands together. “Is Fresh coming with you?”

Dream nods. “He said he needed some… fresh air.” It’s a bad joke, but it quells Blue’s worries, and that’s all that counts. Blue laughs.

He’s such a liar.

* * *

Ink isn’t looking at him. At either of them. Fresh is seething inside his mind, and Ink is paying no attention to them.

Dream clears his throat.

“So you came back,” Ink says, keeping his gaze down. Maybe he doesn’t want to look at what Dream has become. And that’s alright, really. Dream doesn’t like looking at himself, either. “And you brought him with you.”

He crosses the grass, drenched in the colours of an invisible, red sunset, and sits down next to Ink. “We’re not here to fight you.” His eye socket hurts.

Ink doesn’t laugh when he once would have. He simply gestures around. “It would be dumb, trying to fight me here.” He plays with the pencil between his fingers before addressing them again. “Fresh… why do you keep using him even if you know it’ll eventually break him?”

He talks about Dream as if he isn’t here. Fresh takes over. That’s fair. Dream’s not the one being talked to, after all. “’cuz what else is there for either one ‘a us ta lose, man? Nothin’, that’s right.”

Ink hums, a soft noise in the back of his throat, and finally, finally he looks up, discards his pencil and lifts Dream’s chin with his fingers, turns his head around so he can properly look at him. But it’s still Fresh he’s talking to, not Dream. “I can’t feel the emotions of others like he can,” Ink starts, still staring at Dream with his soulless eye lights, “but even I can sense that there’s something wrong.” He lets go of Dream’s chin, picking up the pencil again. “Why aren’t you doing your job, Dream?”

Dream shrugs, watching their reflections in the pond. “I can’t,” he says.

Ink doesn’t seem surprised at the admission. “And what do you want me to do about that? You wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t want something from me.”

“True dat. Those vials ‘a yours…,” Fresh starts, but Ink shakes his head.

“Forget about it. Even if you were able to take them, I wouldn’t let you.”

Silence settles down on them until Dream sighs. “Then what are we supposed to do?”

Ink shrugs. “I don’t know.”

* * *

Dream picks up the apple peeler that’s sitting on the counter. Stares at it. Turns it around in his hands. There are no apples in the kitchen. Not even the empty basket. He thinks about dropping it into the sink and letting someone else take care of it when Blue strolls in and freezes in the doorway upon seeing him.

“Dream,” he says through a strained smile, dragging out the vowels, “hey there, didn’t know you guys were back already.” A laugh. “Why don’t you give me that and I make us something to drink? How does that sound?” He inches closer, step by step, holding his arms out as if Dream is some kind of cornered, frightened animal. “What would you like? Tea? Hot chocolate? Something else?”

Dream only realizes he’s nicked himself by the time Blue makes him sit down at the table and puts a small band-aid on his finger. But that’s ridiculous – apple peelers aren’t that sharp.

* * *

They’re standing in front of an intact mirror. Just staring. Dream’s hand wanders up the side of his face even though he doesn’t feel it. His fingers play with the golden crown that he can’t, won’t get rid of. It annoys Fresh to no end, but he keeps quiet.

It doesn’t matter.

* * *

_It’s not raining. Nightmare isn’t here._

_There’s nothing, Dream now realizes. He’s all on his own. Again._

_Footsteps in the mud. Someone kneeling next to him. A hand on his back. It’s warm and cold at the same time. “Hiya,” Fresh says, “p bleak place ya have in here, dawg.”_

_Dream nods, staring at his lap. It’s not raining but the soil is still wet._

_“Dis your subconsciousness?”_

_He doesn’t know. It must be._

_Fresh hums. “Well, let’s see what we can do.”_

* * *

He’s sitting on his bed, staring at nothing. Fresh is in his head, sorting through his thoughts, happily humming to himself. Can Fresh be happy? Is that even possible for a parasite?

The voice next to him. Talking to him. No one is there. Just a shadow.

“You’re so pathetic, Dream,” it says, “letting some kinda outsider snoop around in there.”

Dream closes his eye sockets. Fresh keeps rummaging through his memories. They’re all open to him now. Just as Fresh’s memories are open to him. Each and every one of them. It makes him sick to his stomach just to think about them.

“Oh yeah, now you’re probably feeling really sorry for yourself, huh?” The voice is oily and slick. He knows that voice. But Nightmare wouldn’t be so mean to him. Nightmare loves him.

He keeps his eye sockets shut.

* * *

He’s lying on his bed. Eye sockets staring up at the ceiling above him. Fresh is still in his head. There are no walls between them. Nothing that separates them anymore. Dream can’t bring himself to care much about it.

“Yo, Dream, dawg,” Fresh sighs, and- right, he can read his thoughts, thinks them as if they’re his own. “Y’know, the deeper I dig ‘n the more walls I tear down, the more we’re gonna become one. Are ya sure ya want that, lil’ bro?”

It’s a lot of responsibility, a decision like that, and he wants none. So he just shrugs.

“There’ll be no hidin’ from me anymore. No secrets. Ya have ta be hella sure.”

He doesn’t know what he wants. “Are you going to leave me too?” he asks instead. “If I say yes, will you leave me too? One day?” He isn’t even sure which answer he prefers.

“Nah,” Fresh says, “we’re gonna be one. A new thing.”

“Then it’s alright,” Dream sighs, closing his eye sockets, “I don’t mind.”

He doesn’t scream when Fresh burrows into his mind and he doesn’t cry when Fresh’s purple claws dig deeper into his eye socket. It only hurts a little, anyway.

* * *

It feels as if their entire body is being ripped in half, maimed only to be pieced together again but in the wrong order. They don’t know which memories belong to whom; it’s all muddled, mixed.

The bed dips under someone’s weight. Oily hands on their face as they gasp for air. “It’ll be alright,” the voice murmurs, and when they open their eye sockets, it’s Nightmare’s face staring down at them. Grinning. “C’mon, it doesn’t even hurt that much.”

They nod shakily. Search for his hand. Make a small noise in the back of their throat when Nightmare pulls it away and raises a finger to his mouth. “Don’t want to alarm them, now do we?” At their questioning gaze, he continues, “Oh, don’t you know? They’re talking about you downstairs. Again, as they always do.”

And if they concentrate hard enough, they can hear the voices downstairs. Whispering. Taunting. Blue and Papyrus and Papyrus and Blue. Either one or both or maybe all. Everyone.

They don’t want to hear it.

* * *

He’s sitting on the bed. “So what do we call ourselves now?” he asks the void in his mind. No one in particular. Himself.

The part of him that once was Fresh shrugs disinterestedly. It’s his- their body doing the motion, but he knows it all the same. “We can, like, totes keep our ol’ names ‘n stuff, dawg. No need ta change anything.”

Dream nods. “But then… isn’t it weird to keep talking about you and me when it’s just… us now?”

“Does it feel weird ta ya?” Fresh asks back. When Dream shakes his head, he continues, “Then it ain’t weird. We’ll jus’ do what we’re comfy with, man.”

Dream thinks he can live with that. He doesn’t have to be alone anymore. That’s enough.

* * *

Blue is waiting for them when they get downstairs. He’s tapping his foot on the ground, arrhythmically. As if he’s nervous. Blue doesn’t get nervous. Papyrus is nowhere in sight. “What have you guys been up to lately?” he asks with a frown. Not unkindly. Disappointed, perhaps.

“Nothin’,” Fresh answers. “Nothin’ and everythin’, lil’ bro-ski.”

Blue’s frown deepens. “I want to talk to Dream, please.”

He laughs and tugs at the multi-coloured jacket draped across his shoulders. “But you already are.”

“The real Dream,” Blue persists, “not the one where he lets you pretend to be him. I know both of you too well to fall for that, Fresh.” Not unkindly. Disappointed.

Dream and Fresh snort. They’re barely taller than Blue, but it’s enough to somewhat loom over him. Not threatening. More like a well-intended warning. Everything they do is well-intended. The others just can’t see that. “What makes you think you know either of us?”

Blue doesn’t cry.

They’re pretty sure that he’s close to crying, however.

It doesn’t really matter either way.

* * *

“Wassup, brah,” he says, pushing his glasses up. He doesn’t really need them; Fresh is buried so deep in Dream’s mind that it would be hard to extract him either way, but they’re a nice reminder of the past, one that he doesn’t want to get rid of. He flashes Error a golden-toothed smile.

“Oh no,” Error says. “N-not you. Not either of you. He said he’d t-take care of this, god funking darnit.” He doesn’t even seem to realize that Fresh is censoring him. White glitches on a white background. It’s silent.

Dream buries his hands in his pockets. “He did?” he asks. He doesn’t even try look for any of Error’s emotions that he can enhance. He wouldn’t, even if he could. There’s no point.

Error curses again, running his hands over his skull. “T-This wasn’t supposed to happen.” He purposefully slows his breathing and closes his eye sockets for a second before glaring at them again. “So what d-do you want here?”

Fresh shrugs. “Nothin’, dawg. Just wanted ta see how our good ol’ bro is doin’.”

Dream hasn’t met Error a lot before. Sometimes, sure. It was inevitable when you traversed the Multiverse or worked with Ink. But that Error had always been cold to him, had ignored him or treated him like a child. Error isn’t like that to Fresh. Even if he doesn’t like him, he respects him. Fears him, perhaps. It makes Fresh’s- _their_ soul tingle.

“I don’t be-believe you,” Error says, narrowing his eye sockets. “Spit it out already, w-what do you want here?”

Fresh takes a step closer. Another one, when Error draws back. Fiddles with his glasses, but maybe that’s just Dream. It’s hard to distinguish between the two of them. Pointless to distinguish. “How ‘bout,” he starts, smiling sweetly, “how ‘bout ya tell us all ‘bout Ink’s plans ‘n stuff.”

It’s not a question.

* * *

Sitting in the kitchen. A kitchen. There are no apples but Nightmare is there. Oily and slick. Leaving his goop all over the table. Blue will be so annoyed when he gets back.

Dream sighs. Curls his fingers around the steaming cup of hot cocoa on the table, bones clicking against ceramic. “It’s been some time,” he says. Nightmare snorts.

“No crap.”

He raises the cup to his face. Takes a sip. It’s scalding hot. “What have you been up to lately?” he asks his brother. Fresh snickers in the back of his mind but is holding back otherwise.

Nightmare grins. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

He sets the cup back down. Folds his hands. Opens his mouth again to ask something else.

“Who are you talking to, Dream?” Blue asks. He’s standing in the doorway, staring at them. Silence.

Nightmare keeps grinning.

* * *

Purple and turquoise.

The apples are back. Sitting on the counter in their basket.

“We’re sorry about the mirror,” Dream says, unprompted.

“What mirror?” Blue asks.

He kicks his feet beneath the table. “The one upstairs. In our room. It’s broken. We broke it.”

Blue frowns. “It’s not broken, Dream.”

Maybe he doesn’t understand. Blue is still a child, after all. Children shouldn’t be burdened with stuff like that.

“We saw Ink the other day,” he continues. “In the Sphere.”

“Did you now?” Blue sounds strained. His fingers are tapping against the table, _tap-tap-tap_. Like tired feet on wet pavement, water in a sink, rain against a windowpane. “What did he say?”

“That nothing ever ends.” Fresh hums in the back of his throat.

“Dream, that’s-” Blue interrupts himself, drags a hand across his tired face. Bleary eyes, cyan, not purple. “Did he say anything else?”

He shakes his head.

Blue sighs. He looks impossibly old at this particular moment in time. “Alright then.”

* * *

Blue had lied to him. The mirror is broken. It hadn’t been broken before but now it is.

Blue is a liar.

He stares at the shards on the floor. 

“Aren’t you going to clean them up?” Nightmare asks from where he’s leaning against one of the wooden bedposts. Dream doesn’t move. “Well, what are you waiting for?”

He nods, kneeling down next to the shards. Nightmare is watching him. Grinning. Silence.

The shards stain his fingers red, red, red.

“That’s a good boy.”

* * *

His hands are shaking and red, red, red.

Blue grasps them with his own, but Blue is a liar. “What happened, Dream?” he nearly begs, desperate, trying to catch his gaze. “Should I-?” His eye lights flit between Dream’s face and his hands, and soon enough his hands are red too. The acidic stench makes him retch.

But Blue is a liar and Nightmare loves him, so he keeps quiet.

Blue scurries away, presumably to alarm Papyrus or to grab bandages or something, and when he comes back, there are red fingerprints on his cheek and half of his face is melting away.

His eye light blinks cyan-yellow-cyan.

Dream throws up.

* * *

His hands are shaking and red, red, red.

Blue grasps them with his own, but Blue is a liar. “What happened, Dream?” he nearly begs, desperate, trying to catch his gaze. “Should I-?” His eye lights flit between Dream’s face and his hands, and soon enough his hands are red too.

But Blue is a liar and Nightmare loves him, so he keeps quiet.

Blue scurries away, presumably to alarm Papyrus or to grab bandages or something, and when he comes back, his hands aren’t red anymore, he’s washed the shame off of himself and Dream’s fingers aren’t red either even though he didn’t wash them. They just burn ever so slightly as if the bone is melting. And maybe it is.

“What happened?” Blue tries again, wrapping the bandages around his hands. “Dream, please, I-”

“I thought I saw someone,” he starts, interrupting Blue. “But I was mistaken. Sorry for worrying you.”

 _Liar,_ Fresh tells him. Fresh knows that he’s not sorry, because he isn’t sorry either.

* * *

“Y-you again?” Error asks, rolling his eye lights. He’s annoyed. Dream doesn’t need to see into his soul to notice that. “Get the heck out of h-here.”

Fresh smiles. “Nah, dawg.” He throws himself on one of the bean bags strewn around the Anti Void. Lounges in it as if the entire place belongs to him. It might as well. “Y’know, ya could use some colours in here. Think we should hit up Ink? He could help ya with that.”

“What do you w-want?” Error hisses, tapping his foot and crossing his arms in front of his chest. His eyes are red, red, red and they widen imperceptibly when Fresh leaps up from his seat, hands clasped beneath his back. But he is close enough to notice. Close enough and yet still so, so far away. “St-stay the _funk_ away from me.”

Fresh titters or perhaps it’s Dream who laughs except for the fact that Dream hasn’t laughed in ages, and he still has nothing to laugh about. Error doesn’t matter much to him, but if he’s important to Fresh, well, then that’s alright. If it makes Fresh want to stay with him, then that’s alright. It’s alright. “Chillax, man,” Fresh warbles with Dream’s voice. Purple and turquoise. “We ain’t here to hurt ya, ol’ pal, fella, _friend_.”

Error looks like he’s bitten down on something sour.

“We’re homies, ain’t we, brah?” Fresh digs deeper. “’n homies scratch each other’s backs, don’t they?”

Error nods, still keeping his distance.

“Ink’s planning somethin’,” Fresh continues, eye lights twinkling, “’n we ain’t want that, right?”

“S-so what do you want me to do?” Error interrupts them rudely. Dream doesn’t comment on it. “Get rid of I-Ink?”

Fresh inclines his head. “Just need ya ta distract him, that’s all. I’ll grant ya access.”

Error raises a brow bone as if he doesn’t believe them. “To the O-omega timeline? Why would you e-even do that?”

His smile lingers. “It’s full a’ liars, dawg. No good vibes.”

* * *

If there’s one timeline Ink would want to protect besides the original timeline, which technically isn’t his job, it’s this one. It must be. Has to be.

Dream sighs. Ignores Blue who’s standing right behind him. Pleading. _Why are you doing this?_ and _Please stop._ But it’s too late, isn’t it? Error’s already wreaking havoc. They’re just waiting. Blue tugs at the sleeve of his jacket. He pays him no mind.

The sound of liquid splattering onto the ground. No red, no purple, no turquoise. Just black.

“We’ve been waiting for you,” Dream says. Staring at Ink. His friend. The liar. Are they still friends? He doesn’t think they are.

“What’s this about?” Ink asks. His gaze flits to Blue for a second before snapping back up.

Blue looks torn, standing somewhere in the middle between Ink and Dream. Neither here nor there. No man’s land, as if he’s afraid to pick sides. Blue has always been a liar.

“Ya already know what’s it ‘bout, dawg,” Fresh says, pushing his glasses up. “C’mon, just hand ‘em over ‘n we’re gonna leave this place alone. Pinky promise.” He grins.

“So that’s what this is about?” Ink asks, gripping his brush tighter. “The vials?” His face is a carefully blank canvas. Just that little splatter of black on his cheek that is burned into the bone, that doesn’t get away no matter how much you scrub at it.

“It doesn’t have to end like this,” Dream chimes in, and Ink smiles. It’s mirthless, cold. Apathetic.

“I already told you,” he says, “nothing ever _ends_.” And then he’s in front of them, swinging his brush, but Dream dodges or maybe it’s Fresh who dodges, not that it matters, but it works this time, they’re in sync, and he lands on his feet, like a cat, hands still in his pockets.

“That was kinda rude, dawg,” Fresh titters, adjusting his glasses – which have slid down a few centimetres – again. He snaps his fingers and a Gaster Blaster appears behind him. Just hovering.

“Can’t use your bow?” Ink dead-pans. “Oh, that’s right. I must have forgotten.”

Fresh fires. It leaves a swath of destruction.

“What do you think will happen if you take a vial?” Ink mocks them as he blocks absorbs the blow with his paint. “Do you think your feelings will magically come back? That you’ll be able to use your powers again? Is that it?”

Dream doesn’t know what he thinks he’s gaining from this. But if Fresh wants it, then it must be desirable. Fresh wouldn’t lie to him. Fresh can’t lie to him. They’re one and the same.

He dodges another swing of Ink’s brush, disappearing for a split second when the paint turns into ropes and tries to shackle him to the ground. Weaves in between attacks, side-stepping everything that Ink sends his way. He knows Ink’s moves; from the countless times they’ve fought each other to the countless times they’ve fought alongside one another. “And is that so wrong?” Dream demands to know, challenging although there is no heat behind his words. “I could help all of you again. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

Ink grins at him, all teeth as he takes a swipe at Dream’s head. “You’re not doing it for them, you’re doing it for yourself.” He sends him flying through the air and then follows him. Time seems so slow up here that Dream wonders if it’s passing at all. He wouldn’t mind if it just stopped. No more decisions.

“Maybe,” Fresh answers in his stead, “maybe not. Don’t act like ya know us, brah. I can’t stand that.”

And then they’re back on the ground in an instant, gravity pressing them against solid earth. Dream shifts his weight, one of his hands shooting out as the other blocks Ink’s brush.

Ink’s toes aren’t touching the ground anymore; he’s suspended in the air; the only thing that’s keeping him above the ground is Dream’s grip on his scarf, hands buried in the soft material.

The other hand reaches for the vials when bony fingers close around his wrist.

“Don’t,” Blue whispers. Pleading. He looks the worse for wear; his neckerchief is full of holes and singed in places.

“Why not.”

“You don’t know what will happen.” Blue looks like he’s about to cry. A long time ago, Dream might have cared about Blue’s feelings, back when he didn’t know how much of a liar he was. But Dream knows better now. He knows. “Please, Dream, Fresh, don’t do this. I know you can do better.”

Silence, for a second.

Then Dream uncorks the vial with his thumb, red and purple and turquoise.

* * *

Red sky in the morning. It’s going to rain.

Yes.

**Author's Note:**

> The disorder i decided to stick with was schizoaffective disorder. I did a lot of reading, so I hope I somewhat managed to portray it correctly. 
> 
> on a happier note, i also stole one (1) dark souls reference and adopted it as my own.
> 
> Good bye.


End file.
